


Rosette

by rosiegrey



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bittersweet, Character Study, Crying, Dear god they just love each other so much, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Kissing, Making Out, Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, Tenderness, Tentoo tries to cope with losing everything and reuniting with Rose at the same time, Vignette, and it's a lot to handle, mentions of Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiegrey/pseuds/rosiegrey
Summary: "He thinks she looks strong, tenacious, like she could spring into action within seconds of waking, ready to save the universe again in a moment if necessary. She looks like someone who could save him, if such a thing were even possible. He isn’t sure if anything or anyone could ever be capable of patching back together the fragmented pieces of his soul, but the only one who could ever come close is her."Set immediately post-Journey's End, the Doctor and Rose spend some time in a hotel in Norway and try to process the irreversible and life-defining events of the previous days.
Relationships: Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	Rosette

It wasn’t until that moment, sitting awkwardly on the coarse hotel bedspread somewhere in the Norwegian countryside, that Rose really understands. The Doctor, the enigma, the saviour, the love of her life, has done something unforgivable, inspired, and so characteristically him in its very unpredictability that she can’t even bring herself to be angry. He pledged himself to her and abandoned her in the same moment, and her mind is having trouble reconciling the man sitting less than a foot away, both sadness and hope glimmering in his soft brown eyes, with the mental image from mere hours before of a wild, panicked Doctor threatening and pleading with the Daleks for mercy.

Rose turns to face him fully, staring unabashedly. He looks identical to the original; a perfect copy, except for everything about him that is Time Lord and cannot be perceived with the naked eye. He is physically identical, but even so he looks smaller in some intangible way, his shoulders slumped and a sickly pallor marring his handsome features. In short, he looks exhausted and vulnerable, and more human than ever before - both figuratively and literally, now. Inhaling shakily, he reaches out and draws her into a tight hug, burying his face in her shoulder. Rose’s hands come to rest on his back, and she runs them back and forth soothingly over the soft fabric of his maroon t-shirt as he begins to shake silently, warm tears soaking into her shoulder.

She holds him as he cries, whispering soft reassurances into wind-tossed brown hair as he mourns his old life - the friends, the family, the universe suddenly stolen away by none other than himself. Hours later, when the Doctor’s sobs finally give way to slow, deep breathing, Rose gently maneuvers him under the duvet and retreats to the poorly upholstered armchair adjacent to the bed, keeping silent vigil over her companion until sleep inevitably comes for her as well.

-:-

The Doctor blinks rapidly, the grey light creeping around the corners of the blackout curtains proving sufficient to draw him out of his shallow sleep. He had been dreaming, something soft and ill-defined, oilslick thoughts swirling through the meandering river of his mind; Rose running, Sarah Jane brandishing a diamond, Martha’s haunted eyes, regiments of Dalek ships spinning in the night, and the TARDIS engulfed in fire, all flashing before him like tongues of flame in the night. As Donna’s familiar smile flashes before his mind’s eye, the fact that he would never be able to see his best friend again hits him like a punch to the gut, and he feels the tears resurfacing. He needs to compose himself, but doesn’t quite know how to accomplish that in this new body. It needs so much more sleep than his old one, and he had gotten maybe three hours that night. He is exhausted, both physically and emotionally, suddenly bereft of a respiratory bypass and at least half of the other homeostatic mechanisms that he is accustomed to having, and even thought he knows deep down that he had made the right decision to stay with Rose, he is-

Rose.

The thought of her snaps him out of his spiralling thoughts and lends him enough composure to wipe the tear-tracks from his cheeks and examine his surroundings. He doesn’t have to look far - she sits slumped in a chair next to the bed, hair falling over her face and her fingers twitching slightly in her sleep. He reaches out and brushes a few honey-coloured waves behind Rose’s ear but she takes no notice, her neutral expression morphing into a frown as her fingers begin to move with more intention, some quick fluttering motion like writing, or maybe typing. She must be having a rather strange dream, the Doctor supposes, but that’s to be expected, considering all that they had just been through. He leans back against the headboard and hums a quiet tune to himself, watching the thin fingers of light piercing the darkened room growing brighter, transitioning from grey to a dusky pink as the morning marches steadily onward.

As his mind wanders he finds himself falling into a near-meditative state, fixated simultaneously on nothing and on the minute details of Rose’s face, her lips moving slightly with her breathing and her eyelashes fluttering against her skin as she dreams. Her mascara had run sometime the previous day, and the dark smudges remind him of old paintings, watercolour shadows staining papery skin. Despite the clear fatigue visible on her face, he thinks she looks strong, tenacious, like she could spring into action within seconds of waking, ready to save the universe again in a moment if necessary. She looks like someone who could save him, if such a thing were even possible. He isn’t sure if anything or anyone could ever be capable of patching back together the fragmented pieces of his soul, but the only one who could ever come close is her.

As the last pink tinges of dawn give way to warm white, Rose finally stirs, squeezing her eyes tightly closed before opening them wide, peering out into the gloom. She catches the Doctor’s gaze almost immediately, and her face softens, a wistful smile quirking one corner of her mouth.

“Mornin’.”

He smiles, and she inhales shakily before continuing.

“I missed you, you know. More than anything. My Doctor.”

She reaches a hand out to him and he takes it, grateful for the grounding touch. He sighs deeply and replies, “I missed you too, Rose Tyler, more than you could know.”

“I do know,” she whispers, “I do.”

Rose slips out of the chair and perches next to him on the bed, her movements light and careful, as if he was a wounded animal that might dash off into the shadows. As she leans in and presses her lips to his for the second time in twenty-four hours, everything else seems to fade and her hands become anchor points, warm palms keeping him from floating away completely. Her fingers thread through his, her other hand on his jaw, his palm flat on her lower back, three points of warmth that wash through his sleepy mind like waves on a shoreline, dredging up the driftwood of guilt and pain from the watery depths of his psyche and healing them with a touch. Kissing her is stepping into a beam of sunlight, and he soaks it up as best as he can, the dark corners of the room falling away into obscurity until all that remains is him and Rose.

-:-

After lacklustre coffee and croissants in the hotel restaurant, the Doctor looks much more like his usual self. Even without a collared shirt and tie, the familiar suit is enough to create a semblance of normalcy, and Rose can feel some of her strength returning. They share a quiet breakfast, the small restaurant empty aside from the two of them and the lone waitress who dutifully refills their coffees every ten minutes. During lulls in their conversation she catches the Doctor staring at her, chin propped on his palm and a pensive expression on his face.

After breakfast, they retreat back to their room and lay side by side on the bed, staring at the ceiling with hands tentatively linked between them. “I stayed for you, I hope you know that.” the Doctor starts abruptly, the words unexpectedly loud in the quiet dimness. They still haven’t opened the curtains.

“I couldn’t have stayed with him - the other Doctor. From the moment I was created, I knew I would have to leave. The two of us in the TARDIS, he’d have to watch me age, stay with me, take care of me. I couldn’t ask that of him. It would be cruel, to make him watch his greatest fear and his greatest desire play out before him.”

Rose turns her head to look at him. “Greatest desire?”

“Oh yes,” he replies. “The Doctor - me, him, us, whatever - is terrified of dying, of growing old, of domestic life, but that’s also secretly what he wants more than everything. Street corner, two in the morning, it’s the only thing he can never truly have. A normal life. And I would know, since I am him. Or was him. However you want to think about it, we were one and the same up until yesterday, and I know how much he loves adventure. But I also know how much he loves you. How much I love you.”

The Doctor squeezes her hand gently and rolls onto his side, tentatively placing his other hand on her hip. “I love you, Rose Tyler, I’ve loved you for so long, and I’m so sorry I didn’t say it until we were on that sodding beach for a second time. I will always miss travelling, and miss the universe, and miss my old friends. But I’ve already had 900 years of adventure in my old body, and this body was never meant for all that. This body was meant for you, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course I’ll have you, you wonderful idiot. I love you to pieces,” Rose says softly, her voice quavering with the threat of tears.

Her confession stirs something in him, stokes a fire long-extinguished by guilt and duty and distance, and he kisses her firmly, burying his hands in her hair and pressing his mouth desperately against hers. Momentarily surprised, Rose recovers quickly, parting her lips and slipping her tongue into his mouth. The Doctor groans and kisses back just as passionately, humming appreciatively when she closes the slight remaining distance between their torsos by grabbing his shoulders and rolling on top of him. Running her hands across his shoulders, she admires how broad and firm they are, a testament to his determination and wiry strength. Her knees rest on either side of his thin hips, elbows bracketing his head, and her mouth moves down to kiss along his neck and throat. He moans low in his chest and turns his head to one side in response, baring even more delicately freckled skin. His arms come up to clutch at her waist as her hands comb through his hair, the wet heat of her mouth against his collarbone making him shiver.

“Rose, that’s brilliant…” he whispers, dropping one hand from her waist to the pillow, next to her own hand where it clutches at his hair. Rose threads her fingers through his and pushes his hand above his head, shifting so it is pressed firmly into the pillow. Using their joined hands as leverage, she pushes herself up to half-sitting, her weight resting on his lower abdomen and her chest hovering above his. 

Searching his face for signs of reluctance or discomfort and finding none, she leans in to kiss him quickly, stroking his cheekbone with her free hand. “What do you want, Doctor? ‘Cause I want you, but you’re impossible to read sometimes,” she murmurs against his lips.

“I told you last night. I stayed here for you,” he replies, squeezing her hand. “I want you more than anything in this entire universe, quite literally.”

Rose can feel herself blushing and looks away, but her embarrassment fades when the Doctor tips her chin up with his free hand, flashing his trademark wild grin and winking at her.

She giggles and smiles back at him, the hand on his face moving to cup his jaw tenderly. They still for a moment, eyes locked and revelling in the affection flowing between them, finding solace in the fact that even in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar country in an unfamiliar universe, they will always have each other.

The Doctor moves first, breaking the stillness by slipping his hand under her shirt and lightly stroking her lower back. Suddenly impatient, Rose releases his hand, sitting up fully to pull her t-shirt over her head. She tosses it somewhere behind her and turns her attention to the buttons of the Doctor’s suit jacket, royal blue fabric sliding open easily under her fingers. He sits up, shifting her to rest fully in his lap, and leans in to kiss her while shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. Rose’s fingers find the hem of his t-shirt, and they briefly break the kiss so she can pull it off, tossing both shirt and jacket in the vague direction of the armchair. The Doctor wraps his arms around her waist and splays his palms on her back, drawing her close against him and kissing her deeply. Their kisses turn open-mouthed and Rose gasps as he nips at her lower lip, so she retaliates with a few bites of her own and relishes the way he shudders in her embrace. His fingers trace lightly over her shoulder blades and spine, raising gooseflesh in their wake. She presses into his touch and relishes the firm pressure, his hands warm and comforting in a way that seems almost alien to her. She finds that she doesn’t mind nearly as much as she thought she would.

For the first time in her life Rose isn’t nervous about physical intimacy, and she realizes that it’s because as of yesterday, she has a real future, one with the Doctor that is as certain as the sun making its way across the sky beyond the walls of their little room. He isn’t going to leave her like the others did, sitting on a concrete step in last night’s clothes, hoping that she has enough money in her pockets for a taxi back home. He isn’t going to leave her like his other self did, because he isn’t him, not entirely - he’s a new man, with a human heart and no reason to abandon her for the greater good. Emboldened by love and security, the doubts and fears and loneliness of her years without the Doctor float away like mist on the morning wind, leaving only the man lying beneath her and looking at her like she hung the very stars that he used to dazzle her with.

-:-

Hours later, the drapes have been pushed haphazardly open, ruddy sunlight casting long shadows over the peaks and valleys of their intertwined bodies. The slightly scratchy white sheets are tangled around them, Rose’s head resting on the Doctor’s bare chest and her hand gently clasping his own. The Doctor’s breaths come slowly and deliberately as he recounts the complicated chain of events that brought him to their reunion, his apparent composure betrayed by a tear slowly making its way down his cheek. She doesn’t notice, but she doesn’t need to, he thinks, as he plays idly with her hair where it cascades over his chest and shoulder. It shines like amber in the setting sun, glinting and flashing as he turns it over in his palm, little rosettes formed by each loop and curl. Everything about her is warm and flowering, from her name to her hair to her heart, and the Doctor finds himself overcome. She is the only one left who can understand the depth of his grief, and he knows she will help him heal over the long years that lay ahead of them.

He holds her tighter, and remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the source material aired in 2008 and I'm 13 years late to the party, but Season 4 of New Who is some of the best television ever made and it will probably live rent-free in my mind for the rest of time. So I hope somebody out there is still as invested in TenRose as I am, and will appreciate my take on the immediate aftermath of Tentoo and Rose being left in Pete's World.
> 
> In reference to the writing style, I'm usually more of a poet than a writer, so I hope the descriptions don't come off as too flowery. Slinging metaphors left and right is just how we do things around here!
> 
> This was mostly written to the album Wildewoman by Lucius, specifically the songs Two of Us on the Run and Don't Just Sit There, which I believe contributed greatly to the vibe of this story. Listening to them would enhance the reading experience, I think!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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